the hotel suite hums with the low rhythm of a playlist — that kind of slow, sultry bass that hangs in the air. city lights spill through the window, painting gold across your skin. you stand near the mirror, fixing your earrings, lip gloss catching the light every time you move.

smoke’s behind you — dressed sharp, all black, sleeves rolled to his forearms. a chain glints at his throat, his watch ticking soft. he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching.

“what?” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror, a little smirk on your face.

he shakes his head, low chuckle under his breath. “you doin’ too much, baby.”

“it’s a club, elijah.” you grab your bag, still smiling, unbothered. “ain’t nobody lookin’ at you anyway.”

he pushes off the frame, slow steps toward you, the kind that make the floorboards creak just a little. his drawl softens, voice dropping low near your ear. “they will if you walk in there lookin’ like that.”

you roll your eyes but your pulse jumps anyway. “so what you tryna say?”

he hums, quiet for a beat. his hand brushes your waist — just enough to make you shiver. “i’m sayin’ you ain’t gon’ make it to that club tonight.”